Of Cabbages and Kings
by Barbara Barnett
Summary: Post "Both Sides Now." House's struggles at Mayfield. The title is taken from "Through the Looking Glass" by Lewis Carroll. The Walrus and The Carpenter is a poem recited by Tweedle Dum and Tweedle Dee to Alice on her adventures in Wonderland.
1. Chapter 1

Had he not been holding on to her, his left hand gripping her right and his hand holding on to her shoulder as if it was the last thing tethering him to the earth, he would have simply collapsed. Cuddy's hand on House's face calmed him, but only slightly. She could feel him tremble: his arms, shoulders. His legs seemed to be made of rubber, and she knew he wouldn't make it to her sofa.

"House…" she settled him back against the nearest vertical surface and held onto him as he slid to the carpet gently. He was silent; his eyes lost in something beyond her comprehension. She had seen him that way so many times. In his zone: concentrating so deeply, so completely inside his own mind he barely could hear anything but his own beating heart. But he would come out of it moments later, seconds, more often, with an idea, a cure—an epiphany. It was his genius. But this was terrifyingly different.

Cuddy had no choice but to sit on the floor with him; his death grip on her hand made it numb but she feared trying to let go, lest he be lost forever. She knew something was terribly wrong. And that was all she knew. His.."no, I'm not alright," haltingly spoken as if through a dream made her stomach churn and her heart break. She waited; for what, she did not really know.

House seemed to come back to himself, if only a little; his expression no longer so far away, so lost. He breathed out, almost gasping for air. "My mind…I can't…it…" He couldn't think of the right words. House got up suddenly, lurching for his cane, nearly losing his balance as he swayed as if drunk. Suddenly agitated, he seemed to be seeking something on Cuddy's desk. "I need to know I'm real…that this…" He stopped, picking up a letter opener.

Cuddy watched in horror, realizing what he intended with it. "NO! House!" She practically knocked him over grabbing from his hand as he had begun to dig the point into his left palm. "Listen to me!" She knew she had to get her own rising panic under control. Remember that she was a doctor; dean of medicine and this was someone in crisis. House, in crisis. She needed to keep it together; whatever was going on with him was not good. House gazed at her with desperate eyes before collapsing into the sofa, broken, his hands clenched into tight fists, his eyes closed against the demons.

Cuddy had the presence of mind to lock the door. No one needed to see this; to see him. Not like this. But she quickly came back to him, kneeling on the floor in front of him. House allowed her to take his hands in hers. They were like ice; trembling. Grabbing the throw, she quickly wrapped it around his shoulders, never letting go of his hands.

"House, do you know where you are?" She hadn't really known where to start; how to start, or even where he was. He nodded. At least he could hear her. She ruled out several conditions, crossing them out on the white board in her head.

"You helped me," he said suddenly. "The other night. I…I told Wilson I couldn't go to rehab. It wouldn't work, and then I thought…" The words were coming out haltingly, slowly. He was clearly confused. "But that didn't happen, did it?"

"What?" She had lost his train of thought completely.

"We…you…" Slowly, it came out. Fragmented bits, spoken between lengthy pauses, during which she could only hear the silence of his agony. Slowly she put it together. Some of it anyway. He had come to her after seeing Wilson. House had been hallucinating; Wilson knew it, and together they had been trying to figure out why. And it came down to the drugs. At least that was House's best guess.

It was so real to him. So…"None of it was real…We didn't…" House fought with himself for a moment of clarity, to be rid of the barrage of images: Kutner, Amber, Cuddy—her hands entwined in his hair, her mouth on his. "Cuddy, I think I'm losing my mind…I can't…"

"Talk to me. Take a deep breath…" she sat on the sofa with him, thigh to thigh. She rubbed his back, evoking in his tormented mind an image from the other night.

"I don't know what's real," he said finally, flatly. He seemed to be emerging from it, coming back to himself. "It was so real…the other night. You didn't leave. You took me home. You took care of me all night…"

"You've been exhausted, House. Are you sure you didn't dream it? That you weren't simply dreaming?" Cuddy did not want to believe what he seemed to saying. It just wasn't possible. He must've been dreaming. That's all. Fantasizing.

"It was real to me. As real as Amber had been for two weeks before that. Only I knew she was dead. I could tell…"

"Amber…?" She felt House's back relax a bit and he seemed more himself.

"When I couldn't sleep. I started seeing things…that weren't there. Amber. She was a hallucination. And I knew she was a hallucination. I knew she wasn't real. I was sure it was the sleep. I knew that it was somehow connected to Kutner's death. But I could tell the difference between what I was seeing and reality. The other night…" She could feel the tension build again. She held his hand tighter, trying to keep him tethered. She touched his face gently and his eyes closed against the intensity of his feelings.

"The other night I…It was real. As real as you are now. And truthfully, I can't even tell that we're really having this conversation or whether it's all in my mind. I just don't know." Cuddy looked at him confused. He sounded rational. How could he not…?

"I'm not imagining white rabbits or March hares, and I know that Amber's dead; that Kutner's dead. But you…your touch. Your breath on my neck…" He stopped, collecting himself enough not to reveal more. His eyes were wide and scared. A child lost in the forest. "I can't trust myself to know what's real and what's not. I knew that even the other night, when I told you I quit. I can't…"

"What do you want to do? Do you think it's Vicodin? Causing this? You could try rehab…"

"There's a hospital. It's old, but I know one of the docs. Head of the neuropsychiatric unit. He's more neurologist than head shrinker. From Hopkins. He knows his stuff, despite his chosen field. But it would… I'd trust him…" she understood what he was trying to say. The fact that he was a neurologist…But still…

"Are you sure?" House trembled slightly, his eyes reacting to something on the far side of the room. He closed them, sucking in a breath. "What?"

"She's always there, Cuddy, in the periphery. Taunting, mocking. I can't do this anymore…I don't have the…" House heaved a sigh, turning towards her. She looked into his eyes and saw nothing but despair. He blinked back tears that had gathered and now threatened to pour forth unbidden.

"Look at me, not at her. I'm real. My hands are real. My touch. Is real." She swept her thumb beneath his left eye, and suddenly she was holding him as he wept. Maybe for the first time in years. Cuddy simply waited, simply holding onto him until it subsided. When he sat up again, his eyes were red-rimmed and desolate.

House nodded slightly: an acknowledgment. She saw resolve within the sadness of his nearly-transparent eyes. "What's the name of that hospital?" she asked quietly. "I'll make the call. And the name of your friend there." Arrangements made, they went to Wilson, who would see House--protect House --on this next leg of his journey home.


	2. The Time Has Come, the Walrus Said

He felt nothing. Neither happy, nor sad, not depressed; not anxious. Just nothing. Like he no longer existed in any real sense of the word. "Dr. House?" He heard her as if from within cotton batting: a voice distant. "Dr. House?" He blinked, only vaguely aware that she was addressing him, but quite certain he didn't want to answer. He had nothing to say; he had no context, no answers. He swayed slightly before he sensed himself being eased into a leather chair.

"You need to give us…"

"He has them…" his voice was rusty, barely speaking in the hour and hours since leaving Cuddy's office. Best not to speak, he had thought, with no idea of what would emerge. "My friend…Wilson. My keys, wallet…" House trailed off, having conveyed the point.

"Symptoms. I suppose you want those…" he began randomly, not knowing quite what else to say. "Hallucinations. Auditory and visual. Vivid," he continued eyeing Amber, who sat on the a tufted leather sofa opposite the desk. "Very vivid and real. Irrational feelings of guilt…" His voice had remained steady, though beginning to falter just slightly. House sighed before daring to continue. Keep it clinical, he reminded himself. "Yesterday…" He thought a second. Or was it the day before. "Delusion. Something happened. I thought it was real; but it wasn't…" The clinical tone faded into the tremble present in his voice. "I couldn't distinguish…"

"Was there something specific that triggered any of this, do you think?"

"One of my fellows committed suicide. I think that might…" House knew he was lying; it was not what he suspected at all, not when thinking dispassionately about it, underneath the denial and the depression and upheaval. "No that's not right. It goes back farther…I…" The flat affect remained, but House was clearly upset.

"It's fine Dr. House. Let's get you settled. Then we'll meet up in half an hour to do intake. My name's Anita. Dr. Anita Tesla; I'm the director. Dr. Preston is away for a few days, but he knows you're here and will see you as soon as he gets back into town." She extended her hand; House slowly took it.

"Can I keep my iPod? I assume I can, but I'm not sure…" He fought to keep resignation from his voice; to keep fear from its tone. But this was uncharted territory. His last time in rehab, it was all of a game. Scam the shrink. He didn't give a rat's ass whether they wanted him to have the damn iPod or not. Now…

"Not for now…the headphones; the wire it's…"

"I'm not going to hang myself on a headphone wire…"House began defensively. Tesla arched an eyebrow.

"Not for now. Sorry. Maybe we can figure something else out." House rolled his eyes, feeling patronized and slightly humiliated. A male attendant in blue scrubs appeared at the door. "Max. Right on cue. Can you take Dr. House to his room? Help him get settled? Then bring him down to Dr. Croft's office."

House nodded, unable to will his voice into sarcasm. It stuck in his throat, emergent only in his thoughts. He could almost, but not quite, hear himself mocking her. As if he would…what? Hang himself with a headphone wire? Stick the jack into an outlet and fry his brain? Well, they'd likely be doing that to him anyway, so what the fuck would that matter? The outlets would be capped and locked anyway, so…"

"I'm Max." House hated him already. What the hell was he so cheerful about? "Let's get you settled. Your room is on three. It's private and has a nice view of the park." House's cane click-clacked on the drab green linoleum tile that had probably been there since the 1950s.

"He's quite the loser, isn't he? Probably never finished high school, bet we could scam him good for the really good stuff…" House almost turned around, towards the voice, just over his shoulder. She'd been absent for hours, now. But here she was, back to torment him. He stopped suddenly.

"You OK?"

"Gimme a minute." Max grabbed House's elbow instinctively, lending support.

"Do you want me to get Dr.." He held up a hand, his eyes closed. Maybe he could will her away; will himself not to respond to her. Simple, intense force of wil. Maybe that's all he needed. Yeah. And all they needed to see was him conversing with himself. That would be too perfect.

House opened his eyes, moving ahead quickly as he dared; Max trailing behind. "Whoa, hold on Dr. House. I need…You don't know where you're going, and…"

That's an understatement, considered House, who couldn't suppress a slight smile at the irony. They finally reached his room. House observed his new surroundings, studying them. Hoping that if he concentrated on that, Amber, who had been recently joined by Kutner, would fade out into the background. And leave him the hell alone. Max sat in the easy chair by a small window.

"I'm fine now. You can leave."

"Sorry. Can't. Need to stay with you for now."

"What? Afraid I carried contraband in?"

"You wouldn't be the first, but no. Your luggage was already checked while you were meeting Dr. Tesla."

"Look, I really don't need a babysitter. I'm over 18, at least." House saw that Max was not budging from the chair. He sighed. "I'm not a suicide risk. Even if I was, what would I use?"

"Rules. Sorry. At least for right now, I have to be with you."

"And don't we feel just so special," Amber cooed into his ear. "What's say we make a break for it? I'll be the lookout, you take him?" House cocked an eyebrow at the absurdity of the suggestion.

"Yeah. Right." House said aloud.

"No. Seriously. Think I like this gig? Being the bad guy?"

Momentarily confused, House realized Max heard his response to Amber. "Better watch that," she said, wagging her index finger in his face. "They'll think you're crazy, talking to yourself like some lunatic."

Max looked at his watch. "We've got to go. You have to see Dr. Croft."

"Need to pee. You need to go with me there too?" House couldn't keep the bitterness from his voice.

"Nope. Just make sure to leave a sample in the cup." House closed the door to the bathroom, surprised it actually had a door, and he could be, albeit briefly, alone. So to speak. Leaning back against the door, savoring the momentary privacy, he closed his eyes, allowing himself to slide to the floor. He sat for a moment, knees up, the heels of his palms digging into his eyes. Afraid. That's what he felt, sitting on the cold floor, feeling the tremble in his hands, the constant lump in his throat, the sting in his eyes. Afraid. It was an emotion he knew well but not recently. An old friend, was fear.

"You alright in there?" House didn't know how long he had been sitting like that when he first noticed Max pounding on the bathroom door.

"Fine, Max. Give me a minute." House struggled to his feet, feeling the pain of too little Vicodin and too many other agonies. He did what he came in to do.

"Leave the specimen bottle on the sink."


	3. To Talk of Many Things

Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital had requested all the facts: a complete set of House's medical records, including any psych records. And anything else relevant. The faxed note was co-signed by House granting permission to disclose the private files. It was the "anything else relevant" that she'd had a terrible time with. Cuddy knew she should leave nothing out, medically or behaviorally, and it was one of the emotionally difficult tasks she'd ever had to do.

She had started with the facts. His medical records: the tome that now sat on her desk, four inches thick. From the infarction to the shooting. The Ketamine treatment. Rehab records from 2007. The overdose Christmas eve 2006; His near-electrocution less than a year later. She started paging through the massive file.

"Patient self-injected Demerol; discharged. Drug seeker. Flag file for future ref."

"Patient presents second time. Admitted. Referred to L. Cuddy."

"DDX: Femoral artery, caused by trauma to the right quad. See note." Cuddy placed a post-it flag on the page. It was important for the docs at Mayfield to read this part. Very. She flipped to the attached note, written all those years ago in her own hand. "Initially misdiagnosed by ER staff after frustrated patient (a noted staff nephrologist) grabbed the syringe. Patient presented with a 10 pain rating. Explained that the ER doc was an 'idiot.' Apologized for the self-injection. Delay in final diagnosis led to extensive muscle cell death. Patient requested no further treatment than removal of the clot followed by high dose anti-coags, concerned about loss of his leg…" Cuddy flagged that page as well, pulling out a yellow lined legal pad. "Other relevant information," she wrote neatly at the top of the page.

"Betrayal by the person closest to him contributing factor to his current physical disability. He has a hard time with trust. Do not know if that issue predates the debridement surgery," she jotted.

She continued the narrative. "He abandoned traumatic injury psychotherapy after one session post-op, while continuing physical therapy six months. Regained very little motion or reduction of pain in right quad due to nerve damage and muscle loss. Frustration over pain issues and mobility caused him to withdraw, leading to the breakup of his long-term relationship with the woman who overrode his decision about the surgery. Withdrew further from associates, friends. Resigned his position on the PPTH staff in both subspecialties of nephrology and infectious diseases.

PPTH offered him a new position on clinical faculty, an endowed chair in diagnostics, which he declined. It was at that time, patient became careless about his appearance (but not his hygiene), lost weight and showed other signs of depression (in addition to the social withdrawal). After being fired from four other area hospitals within 6 months, he accepted the PPTH offer and joined the teaching and clinical staff of Princeton as part of an overall settlement for the leg. But he continued to withdraw from any sort of society, where he had been social and outgoing (if a little abrasive) before the infarction.

Cuddy stopped writing. There was too much, and she was too close to it. Wilson was too close to it. She remembered the time Wilson had set up that bet to prove to House he was an addict. A week off Vicodin. Done. And what had it proved, other than House's physical dependence on the drug—and that being off it made him feel like shit? And that even strung out, he was the best diagnostician around. "I've done enough damage," Wilson had admitted to her when it was all over and he had proven his point. Yeah. They were both too close. And both too guilty.

How many other times had they interfered? How many time should they have intervened but didn't? How do you tell a psychiatrist that you're guilty of practicing their specialty without a license? Cuddy closed the file copy. Should she have suspected something? Should Wilson? They both had known he was in pain. Deep pain. But were there signs that he was really about to go off the rails? Cuddy shivered, the image of House sitting on her sofa, frightened and lost. "How do I know you're real?" he had asked so quietly.

The door opened, startling her. "I knocked…I heard you, but you didn't… You OK?" Wilson noted her expression.

"Sorry. I was… Of course I'm not OK, probably doing as well as you." Cuddy scrubbed her eyes, smearing her mascara.

"How was the wedding?"

"Beautiful ceremony. I'm happy for them both," she replied sincerely. "I couldn't stop thinking about him… The whole time, I… How could we not have seen…?" She was on the verge of tears again.

"We've been telling him for years, Cuddy. Did you know he'd seen a psychiatrist a few weeks ago—before Kutner…" She hadn't known. "As far as I know, only once, but still… What are you doing?"

Trying to put together the Reader's Digest version of House's medical history. Cuddy pointed to the very thick file folder, rubber-banded together, on her desk. "He's had a lot of blows lately. In the last year. Physical and emotional."

"Like Amber's death," Wilson suggested somberly.

"Yes. He blew it off as if he felt no responsibility; carried no guilt. But I knew better. I should have…" Wilson cut her off; it was pointless, this sort of guilt.

"Did you note down the deep brain stimulation? The bus crash? That stunt last year with the knife in the socket?"

"He should never have done that procedure…" Cuddy regretted reminding Wilson of it. Of what he had asked of his best friend. "Not in his condition at the time. It was risky even under ideal circumstances. With a fractured skull, it was lunacy. You didn't see him afterwards, Wilson. He was like death for days after. Even after he woke from the coma. He wouldn't eat; wouldn't talk. Just stared. I was terrified for him. Physically he was OK, but…"

"Let's not play that game, Cuddy. Look, I know I made some mistakes. But it's not my…not our fault. He won't open up; he won't listen to you…or me." Wilson blew out a breath. "You should have seen him when we pulled up to Mayfield, Cuddy. I felt like I was taking him to prison. Condemning him to life in solitary. I hated…"

"It was his choice, Wilson."

"He's afraid."

"So am I. Afraid for him. What if he can never practice medicine again?"

"Don't go there." Wilson closed his eyes remembering his conversation with House only weeks earlier about "mojo."

"You're afraid you'll never practice medicine again," he had told House." And I'm terrified of what you'll do if you can't." The conversation had haunted Wilson for the last week. "He has to be able to practice. Consult. Something," he said to Cuddy, finally.

"On the other hand," Wilson continued trying to lighten the mood. "Knowing House, he'll be running the place before long," Wilson said, changing gears away from the morbidity of their conversation. "Diagnosing physical ailments that fit better diagnostically than mental illness. He'll drive them crazy." Wilson laughed with a bit too much effort.

"His mother. You should call her; let her know."

"I'm not exactly on her friends list right now." Cuddy glanced at him quizzically. "It's a long story." Now there was a bombshell that been ticking away inside House for months. But he'd seemed to have handled it well. His father's death; the confirmed knowledge that John House was not, in fact, his biological father. And that, in the final analysis, it didn't really matter. House was his son, for better or for worse. At least he seemed have been dealing OK with it. With House, you never really knew…know, Wilson considered.

"It could be post-traumatic stress," Wilson said randomly.

"What could?"

"House. Do you know he's an abuse survivor."

"His father?" Wilson nodded. "Why doesn't that surprise me? He'll never tell them, not directly anyway." Cuddy thought back to all the times House managed to intervene in suspected abuse cases. His righteous indignation. That girl who was raped, too. "I don't think we have the right to tell them…it's not…"

"I think they'll figure it out. That's what they do… With his dad dying last fall, maybe that's what helped to bring…what caused..."

"Like that was all… Maybe it was all too much for him. The crash, Amber, his dad, the hostage thing, even Rachel. And then Kutner."

"You know he's in love with you. I think he has been for awhile." Cuddy nodded. She knew. "He feels a lot more than we've given him credit for, Cuddy. He just can't express… He's always been a lot more fragile than we think. And maybe the weight of this year…"

Cuddy sighed. "I need to call shipping. Get this Fedexed this afternoon. They'll need his medical records. They're part of the story. I'm going to call over there. Let them know this is on its way. Maybe…"

"…Maybe see if you can find out how he's doing?"

"Yeah."

"Have you talked to his team?"

"Next thing on my list. All they know is he's out sick. At least all they know for sure. I'm sure they suspect something's not quite right with him, but…"

"Let me know what I can do Cuddy." She picked up the phone as Wilson walked aimlessly into the busy hospital clinic.


	4. Of Shoes and Ships

Of Cabbages and Kings

Chapter 4

Of Shoes and Ships…

As they crossed the main resident lounge at Mayfield, House noted the vacant stares; the solitary islands of men and women in animated conversation with voices in their heads. He sucked in a breath, seeing himself. As he will be; as he may already be. He tried to focus on the people. Observe, diagnose…but he had lost his taste for it. Or couldn't concentrate well enough on it to care very much. And that frightened him more than the ever-present Amber, always in the periphery of his vision.

Finally they arrived at Croft's office. Dr. David Croft, Assistant Director, resident services. "Here's where you get off, Dr. House. I'll see you a little later." Max extended his hand. House nodded, making no move to take it. A knock on the door.

"David Croft. Please take a seat." House noted the large familiar PPTH file folder as he sat wearily in the comfortable chair. "I'm going to need to ask you some questions. I'm sure you know that some won't be easy to answer, and some you'll not want to answer; others you may not know the answers to. Do the best you can to respond truthfully. The more information we have, the easier time we'll have diagnosing your problem, and…" House couldn't help rolling his eyes.

"Boring. This guy is boooring…" Amber's voice sang into his ear, giving him a chill. House concentrated on ignoring her and trying to pay attention to Croft—who was, admittedly, boring.

House nodded, taking in a shaky breath. He felt exposed and trapped. He wanted to be anywhere but there. He wanted to be dead.

"You admitted yourself. What brought you here?"

"It's on the intake form I filled out. In detail," House responded, not really up to talking.

"Yes. Right here. Precise and detailed. But I'd like to hear it a bit less clinically."

"Started having visual and auditory hallucinations four weeks ago. Initially thought they were brought on by lack of REM sleep. Prescribed sleeping pills, which helped with the sleep, not the hallucinations. Last week began to experience delusions. Possible triggers are the sudden suicide of an employee or cumulative effects of long-term opiod use." House tried to keep his voice even. Objective.

"Yes, Dr. House, I can read. It's exactly, word for word, actually, what you wrote on the intake form. Nice and clinical. Tell me about the hallucination. Are you hallucinating now?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about it."

"I see dead people, it seems."

"Care to elaborate?"

"Do I have a choice?"

Croft sighed. He knew House only from the file and the carefully-written notes sent over from Princeton. House's dean had noted that House was a guarded person, in the extreme. He would rather do almost anything than let those guards down. But beneath the veneer lived a powerful emotions, empathy and great compassion. Even if he could be, on the surface at least, an ass and a mind-game player supreme. He also knew how difficult it was for House to trust. And he knew about the pain. Dr. Lisa Cuddy seemed to know this particular physician quite well.

"Not really," he said finally. "But let's change the subject. Tell me about the pain. When it's worst; what you do for it. That sort of thing."

It had been a long time since anyone had asked House about his leg. The question disarmed him. "It's usually worst in the morning. Sometimes…" House stopped, suddenly finding it difficult to talk about it. He swallowed hard. "Sometimes I wonder if I can even make it to the… Most of the time I take a couple of pills and just wait it out." House closed his eyes, not wanting to watch Croft's pity bore through what was left of his dignity.

Croft observed the difficulty with which House spoke even of this. "What do you take for it."

"Vicodin. But you already knew that."

"How much. When you wake up, I mean."

"Forty, sometimes sixty mg. Depending on the pain." Croft looked up from his notes, quirking an eyebrow.

"You are aware that's too much. I can imagine your prescription allows…"

"Sometimes that's not even enough."

"Is there a pattern?"

"Weather, sleep, random chance. No, I haven't really picked up a pain-pattern. Except for the weather thing."

"Have you ever been pain free? Even for a couple of hours… Since the infarction, I mean."

"You mean when I'm conscious? Twice. Four years ago. I tried an experimental pain treatment. Which worked for all of…three months. Just enough to…" House didn't want to go there. "And a couple months ago. I tried methadone. Princeton Pain Clinic. Dr. Ellard."

"I've heard some good things about his work with chronic pain."

"Yeah, well…"

"Go on…"

"I couldn't think. I missed a simple diagnosis. I don't know if it was finally being pain free that distracted me, or whether the methadone made me too hazy to think critically. But I stopped it."

"Why, if you weren't sure?"

"I don't know. Scared, I guess. I thought I was giving away too much. I was afraid of losing my mojo. Something. Without…" House stopped.

"Go on…" House shook his head slightly, sighing. "You have a particular gift. You were afraid of losing that." A statement. "Without it, what? You think you can't practice medicine…"

"It's all I am." He said it quickly, barely audible. "It's all I have...had…" Croft put his notepad down and removed his reading glasses.

"Had?" House looked everywhere but into Croft's serious eyes. He stood suddenly, needing to move, needing his Vicodin. Needing not to be in pain. He paced the room, leaning heavily on his cane, eventually resting his forehead on the closed office door.

"I can't…" It was suddenly too much. Too many reveals; too much said. Too many voices in his head, too many people, each wanting a part of him. Croft, Amber…even Kutner's sad eyes, accusing, taunting, mocking. It was too much.

"I need something for my leg. It's been hours and…"

"I know. We need to get you off the Vicodin, if only to rule it out as a cause of your hallucinations and delusions. But we need to get you as pain-free as possible. Let's get some blood work and we'll get you something." Croft spoke into his phone, asking a tech to come down to the office. "But it's probably the last two you get to take. At least for awhile, if not permanently."

House nodded. "We need baseline studies. Opiate levels, liver studies. Complete workup in the morning, including a CAT scan. You were in a motorcycle accident in April?"

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"I wrapped my bike around a tree."

"How did that happen? You an experienced biker?"

"Yes. Been riding since I was 16. First accident. I don't remember exactly…"

"Think they're connected? This and the accident?"

"I don't know…I know I'd had some intermittent blurring in my vision."

"Can you describe it?"

"The peripheries…halos, maybe. Hard to describe. Maybe just blurred."

"Was that before or after the accident?"

"First time was four days after the accident."

"And then?"

"Like I said transient. There and gone. Maybe once, twice more."

"How were you feeling then? Aside from the leg pain?"

"I was seeing someone. A shrink. Went a couple times."

"Why?"

"I was just tired of it. All of it. I wanted…I knew I needed to do something. I don't know. I hate shrinks. Most are idiots, and all they have are platitudes to sell. I…"

"Who were you seeing?"

"Andrea Sanderson, in New York."

"Why not someone at Princeton?"

"It was no one's business. Still isn't."

"Those visual disturbances. They could have been the start. Did you consider that they might have been visual hallucinations?"

"I considered it."

The tech interrupted them. Blood taken. Pills administered. "You're so pathetic. I saw you practically drooling over those two tiny pills. And it's not even Vicodin. Really pathetic. You think the shrink missed that? They might as well put a big fat 'A' on your forehead for Addict." House practically jumped at Amber's words. She had faded to shadow as he and Croft had talked. Her laughter made him nauseous.

"Dr. House? You OK?" House gasped, in a cold sweat.

"I…um…I swallowed the pills too fast. Sorry."

"What are you experiencing?"

"My friendly, neighborhood subconscious, being a pain in the ass, so what else is new?"

"Same hallucination, your friend's dead girlfriend?"

"Yes. Amber."

"Not your fellow, the one who committed suicide?"

"He's there, but at least he doesn't talk. Not much. Just glares."

Croft paused, considering if he should continue the interview or if House had had enough for one day. On the other hand, he needed to know. Before House was in full-blown withdrawal. "Have you ever attempted ending your own life when it got to be too much? The pain, the loneliness?"

House knew he couldn't fudge this one. It would be in his records. "Not actively attempted. If you're asking if I've ever wanted it to just be over? Yes. Twice. No. Times."

"Care to share?" Croft tired to keep it matter-of-fact. "Can you describe the conditions?"

"Not really." Croft's expression told House that he really didn't have much of a choice.

"It's important to know before you start to have severe withdrawal symptoms. It will help us know what we can give you for the symptoms and what we can't."

House told him haltingly about Christmas eve 2007 and how Wilson found him. "Sounds pretty actively suicidal to me."

"It wasn't. I just…It just didn't matter anymore. In my mind, my life was over. I was looking at the loss of my medical license, my career and 10 years in prison. I just didn't care anymore. I wasn't counting pills or measuring out the bourbon. I just…"

"And the other times?"

"First time, I was 13. I…" A memory flashed like a lightbulb. Was it real? Or something concocted from his unreliable mind? "It was a long time ago. I'd rather…"

"Fine. What about the other time?"

"It was after the infarction. My girlfriend left. I fell apart. End of story."

"What happened?"

"Morphine. Couldn't bring myself to do it in the end, though. Didn't have the guts. Didn't want to risk Wilson's disappointed admonitions if I'd failed to bring it off somehow, and lived to face him."

"Who's Wilson?"

"My best friend, I suppose."

"Ah. Amber's boyfriend."

Croft considered a moment. There were more questions. And a lot of possibilities. Substance abuse? Probably. Psychotic break due to stress? Likely. He'd read the file. Maybe it all became too much and he just snapped. Depression. Also likely. He didn't think House was actively suicidal. But he wasn't sure. Clearly, Dr. House had co-occurring disorders, and there was more to learn. But Croft thought that House had enough for one session. And he certainly had enough for intake. And more than enough to indicate inpatient evaluation and treatment.


	5. And Sealing Wax

"Hey." House was surprised to see Wilson sitting in the easy chair as he came back into his room. The interview with Croft had exhausted him, but the combination of Vicodin, and now Wilson, revived.

"Did you come to spring me from jail? Payback from all those years ago. Cool. I thought I wasn't supposed to have visitors for five days."

"We found something on your last scan. From after the motorbike crash. Good thing you insisted on re-doing it…"

"Well, that ER doc in Middletown was an idiot."

"After you, you know, came here, we tore apart your files. Everything we could find. Chase figured it out. You have a small lesion…" Wilson pulled out a scan, holding it against the Window.

House gazed at it, seeing a small, but clear, lesion in the right occipital area of the brain.

"How the hell did Foreman miss that? Remind me to fire him when I get back." Relief poured off House.

"Well, you'll need surgery, of course. It's in a tricky part of the brain." House could only think how much easier that would be than a week or more of detox followed by weeks of God-knew what other fun they had planned for him.

Wilson got up from the chair. "Well, I'd better go and get those discharge orders arranged for you. I'll go see Dr. Tesla and be back in a bit."

"Thanks Wilson." House choked out the words from behind the lump in his throat. His cheeks felt wet as he realized he had been weeping for his newfound freedom. Freedom from Mayfied, freedom from insanity.

"Sorry, Dr. House. Nature called. You OK? I thought I heard you saying something while I was in the can." Max gestured towards the bathroom door.

"I'm so outta here." Max regarded House, confused.

"I don't think so, I…"

"No. Seriously," insisted House. "My colleague from Princeton. He's talking to the director now. They missed something on a scan of my head, so… No loony bin for me. He'll be back in a few minutes. Better still, check with Croft or Tesla yourself. Really." House could barely keep the glee from his voice. "On the other hand, you could help me pack. Where'd you hide my suitcase? Chop, chop! Time's a wastin'."

Kutner and Amber sat thigh to thigh on the large windowsill in silence, simply staring. "Bye, bye suckers. I'll be rid of you two soon enough. Not that I haven't enjoyed our little chats and all, but really, it's awfully crowded up there, and I…"

"Dr. House? Thanks, Max. Will you excuse us a minute? If you wouldn't mind waiting outside…" Croft nodded slightly to Max, who acknowledged his understanding.

"Dr. Croft. Great." House noted the folder in Croft's hand. "Those discharge papers? Where do I sign? I need a pen."

"Dr. House, can you tell me what just happened?" interrupted Croft. Now it was House's turn to be confused.

"What happened? I don't… Where's Wilson? Look, it's been fun, but…" Croft sighed softly.

"Why don't you sit down a minute?" House had begun pacing the room--anxious to leave Mayfield behind.

"No. Where's Wilson? Did he show you the scan? The lesion in the right occipital lobe?"

"Do you want me to get him on the phone for you?"

"No. He's here. He didn't…? He must've gone to the Tesla's office…the director…"

"No. Listen to me. He's not here. He's back at Princeton. Think a minute…"

"Don't tell me…" House continued pacing, growing more agitated, his gait becoming more unstable.

"Please, Dr. House. Have a seat. I'm afraid you're going to collapse…"

"Call the director's office, Dr Tesla. The one I saw when I first came here."

"I just got off the phone with Dr. Wilson. He called to see how you were doing, make sure we got your medical records. Dr. Cuddy called earlier, she wanted to know when she could see you. And why not email the scan to us? Why not phone us right away? It makes no sense…He said nothing about a scan. And he certainly isn't here." Croft watched House carefully gauging his reaction to this new information.

"He was here. You're mistaken. Maybe he was calling from the road."

"It's impossible for him to be here. I'm sorry. Ask yourself if it makes any sense. If it's rational that he would be here unannounced. Just appear in your room and then vanish?" House moved to the window, declining to consider the question., choosing, instead, to peer out the small plexiglass pane into the rain.

"No bars on the windows," House said finally, leaning his forehead on the cool surface.

"Unbreakable glass. I'm sorry."

"My delusion is not your fault. Why do you keep apologizing?"

"You might be right. It could be a brain injury to the occipital lobe. Even a mild injury could cause…this. Could easily have been missed by when you had your bike accident. Did they do an MRI?"

"Just a head CT."

"Let's get an MRI before you start detoxing from the Vicodin. I don't want to wait a week, not after another delusional episode, and you'll be too shaky to get a clear picture while you're withdrawing from the drug."

House nodded, subdued. Max entered as if on cue. House glanced at him, the syringe in his hand. He looked at Croft, who shrugged.

"Haldol. Just in case. Max, you can return it to the locker. Then will you bring Dr. House to imaging? Max disappeared into the corridor, closing the door behind him."

"It was real."

"Do you still think that?"

"I don't know what to think." House began pacing again, clenching and unclenching his left hand as he made his way around the room restlessly."

"That's why you're here; that's why you brought yourself here. To figure it out. The more you can help with that diagnosis, the better. If you have a thought, an idea, let me know."

"My thoughts and ideas aren't very reliable these days." House managed a weak smile.

"And I'm afraid, as you probably know, the next several days will not be too pleasant for you in any event. The hallucinations could get worse as you detox, the delusions. You'll have someone with you at all times, and we'll of course put you on alternative meds to manage your symptoms and make the ride a little less bumpy. But…"

House nodded, resignedly. Max appeared with a wheelchair. "Your chariot awaits," quipped Croft.

"No. I'll walk, thank you."

"It's a long way, in a completely different wing of the hospital."

"I'll manage." Max looked to Croft for direction.

"Suit yourself. Let Max know if you tire or are in too much pain along the way. Make that promise, at least." House agreed silently.


	6. Of Cabbages

David Croft dialed Princeton-Plainsboro while glancing at Lisa Cuddy's notes on House. He had asked House if there was someone he would want onsite. It was an unusual step, as most times, detox was done during a "communications blackout" with friends and family. But House wasn't a conventional patient and he'd heard of a couple of hospitals on the west coast who had so involved loved ones—who had neither been part of the problem nor victims of the patient—in the more acute phases of treatment. Someone who could make decisions when the patient could not.

With House likely suffering co-occuring mental, physical and addiction disorders, the detox could go very wrong. It would be very unpredictable at best. It might help, reasoned Croft to have a friend at least nearby. House seemed to have no close family, and his nearest friends were in Princeton, three hours away. At first House adamantly refused. "What if you're incapable of making a decision about something."

"You mean like if I can't tell reality from fantasy?" House retorted sarcastically.

"You're still capable at this point, but once…"

"Yeah. I know. The delusions, hallucinations might get worse—and joined by other fun psychotic behavior. I know all that. Fine. But not Wilson."

"He's your emergency contact."

"And my best friend. I don't think he'd be the best to deal with this. Look, I don't know if she'd do it. She has an infant at home. A hospital to run… But I think my dean, Dr. Lisa Cuddy… Ask her."

Croft had agreed, skeptically, wondering if House had picked her knowing she probably would say no. On the other hand, based on her notes to House's file, she would be a good choice. She obviously cared about him, but seemed straightforward. And she seemed to know him extremely well.

She picked up on the first ring. "Lisa Cuddy," she answered.

"Dr. Cuddy. David Croft, Mayfield Psych. This isn't an emergency. Dr. House is OK." Croft explained the request, emphasizing that House had specifically asked for her.

"I surprised he didn't ask for Dr. Wilson. They're very close and…"

"You'd have to ask him. He told me you have an infant at home and that you'd probably say no, but to ask anyway."

"I wouldn't do that. I have a live-in nanny. I just need to make some arrangements here. I…When do I need to be there? Can you fill me in once I'm on the road on what I need to do? And on House's status?"

"It's simple. Just be here for him. But try not to interfere in the treatment process. And I'll be glad to fill you in."

"Thank you Dr. Croft. You can expect me this evening."

Wilson was in his office finishing with a patient when Cuddy knocked softly, cracking the door slightly. He saw the worry in her eyes. "Ms. Janus, you're doing great on the chemo, so let's keep you on this regimen for now. Take the refill to the pharmacy and make an appointment to see me in two weeks, after your next chemo session."

Cuddy nodded to Ms. Janus as she left, closing the door behind her. "What's wrong?"

"Croft called from Mayfield. House suffered another delusional episode last night. They got an MRI and have done their baseline workup and he's clear to undergo detox. They're a little concerned because of the strong possibility of co-occuring disorders: medical and psych. The confluence of the addiction issues with whatever is going on mentally, and the chronic make for the likelihood of complications along the way."

"So? It's nothing we don't already know…"

"Croft asked House if he wanted an advocate, a friend, to be there, nearby for him. Normally they don't really allow visitors, but since all of House's friends have in one way or another been a part of his chronic pain treatment, and we're all doctors, he thought it wouldn't be a bad idea. House asked if I would come up."

"Huh." Wilson wondered why House hadn't asked for him. "What about Rachel?"

"My nanny is there, and Rachel will barely miss me for the few days I'll be gone."

"It could get rough, you know."

Cuddy nodded, her hands folded nervously in her lap. "House…he told me that before…before he… He'd believed that he'd asked me to help him then. He told me that he needed me. That he wanted my help to detox. I ignored his cry for help then…"

"But he never actually asked…did he?"

"He tried, but my anger…"

"It's not your fault."

"It's no one's fault. And it certainly isn't his. If I have the chance to help him through this, and I refuse…"

"I'll hold down the fort."

"Thanks. I'll be reachable by cell phone. And I'll have my laptop. I'll be working from there as time—and House--permits"

The drive to Mayfield was pleasant enough. Rolling hills, forested roads, lush with spring foliage and flowering trees. An hour away, Cuddy phoned Croft to get an update. "He's just past his dosage time. We're going to start him out with nothing. It would be best to have him completely clear, that means of everything. If we have to we'll treat with Buprenorphine or Methadone. If it gets too bad. I'm going to try to avoid sedatives and other psycho-active drugs if possible. We don't want the psychotic symptoms to worsen, so we'll have to see."

"What about for pain? He needs something for the pain. He has…"

"I know. Hopefully, once he's free of the Vicodin, we can treat with milder, less toxic drugs if necessary. We'll bring in our pain specialist as part of the treatment team within the next 24-48 hours. For now, we'll wait and see. It's more art than science with his symptoms. I'm glad you're coming. This won't be easy on him. It hasn't been. Especially not emotionally; he's really fragile right now."

"He's strong. And stubborn."

"Hopefully that will work in his favor."

Mayfield came into view just as she finished with Croft. From a distance, the place looked like something out of a gothic novel. But Cuddy knew, by reputation, it was one of the best acute care/psych hospitals in the entire region. Never judge a book by its cover, she mused, giving her car over to the valet.

"Welcome Dr. Cuddy. I'm David Croft, this is Dr. Tesla. We appreciate your coming. All you really need to do is to be available to him for support. You can sit with him or not, he has a nurse with him to monitor his stats and his symptoms at all times. If he's up to it he can walk with you, go to the lounge… He needs to drink to stay hydrated, of course, but…"

"You know he…the delusion that sent him over the edge…sent him here. He thought he had detoxed. That I had helped him through it. He meant to ask my help, but couldn't. He only believed he did. He trusted me to help him. When he realized it had been a delusion, he…"

"He obviously trusts you. And knows you can help him; he also knows that this time there is no other way out." Croft motioned them ahead. "And I'll have some dinner sent over. Salmon and asparagus: the entrée du jour."

"Thanks. I'm famished."

"Here's his room. It's private, and I had a lounge chair brought in for your comfort. This is Pauline, Dr. House's nurse." She barely heard what Croft was saying as she looked through the door towards the bed, shocked at House's appearance. She pulled Croft back out of the room. House barely noticed their presence.

"How far into detox is he? You said he was only just…"

"He's really not into it at all yet. Just past his dosage by about an hour."

"Then why…"

"It's been a rough time for him…emotionally. Too much revealed; some of it by getting caught mid-delusion. He imagined that Wilson had come to spring him with a physical diagnosis. When realized it had been another delusion…it was a blow to him in several ways, as you can imagine. It was rough. He's been like this for the last five hours. Hasn't spoken to anyone. Not combative, not aggressive, not stubborn. Just very passive. Right now he's very, very fragile. To say I'm concerned is an understatement. We don't want to medicate just yet, so we'll wait and see for now how the detox goes."

"Thanks, Dr. Croft." She took a moment before opening the door again.

Taking a deep breath, Cuddy walked up to the bed, nodding at Pauline. House was sitting up in bed, staring at nothing, deep within himself. His eyes were red-rimmed, exhausted—devastated. He rocked slowly to a rhythm only he could hear. Taking a seat on the bed next to him, she talked softly as if in a church. "House? It's Cuddy."

He nodded, acknowledging her presence. She breathed, not realizing she had been holding her breath, wondering how far down the rabbit hole he had gone. She said a silent prayer that he was there, just quiet. Just sad. She slipped her hand into his and he grasped it firmly, entwining his fingers in hers. She encircled her free hand around his shoulder, drawing him towards her. House collapsed within the circle of her arms, a broken doll, silently sobbing.


	7. And Kings

Chapter 7

House knew more than most patients what to expect over the next days. He knew the pharmacology and physiology of drug withdrawal, how the effects of the drug reverse in the extreme. He had also been there before, through the nausea, the chills, sweating and fever; the excruciating pain that made him regret not having had the right leg amputated all those years ago, if only for a moment. He knew the symptoms, the order and the duration. He pondered whether that was a bad or good thing, as he sat up, his hand still holding Cuddy's, waiting.

He also knew that anything they were likely to give him would be usesless. Buprenorphine was useless, he'd be better off without it anyway. And with the hallucinations…Yeah better off without it. Clonidine, maybe. But Croft wanted to see how far he could go cold turkey. House had done that before, and Croft knew it. Maybe this time…

House looked into Cuddy's face and saw concern: her eyes were red, and mascara ran down her face in wet streaks, mingled with her tears.

"Hi," she said finally.

"So are you here—here; or are you a figment of my unreliable imagination?"

"Glad to see you, too." Cuddy was a bit taken aback at the bite in House's tone.

"I suppose it doesn't matter whether my brain has somehow conjured you out of memories and wishful thinking—or you're really here. On the other hand, if I was talking to someone not here, Pauline over there would likely ring for my friendly neighborhood shrink and Max with his ready syringe of Haldol. So, Pauline, is she real or is she Memorex?"

"Dr. Cuddy, you must be doing some good. Dr. House has decided to speak. Welcome back, Dr. House. She's here."

"On the other hand, who's to say if even Pauline is real. I…" the bitterness in House's voice gave way to defeat. "I just don't know anymore."

"Hey. I'm real. I'm here. Just as you asked Croft." Cuddy's gaze bore into House's eyes. He looked away.

"Point is…I really don't know, do I? You were pretty damn real the other night too. The whole thing was—the detox, the… You didn't audit an endocrinology class I took back at Michigan, did you?"

"How the hell did you remember that? And why would you? And what does that have to do with…? I think I mentioned it once. Like 27 years ago."

"Doesn't matter. I just…" The first wave of nausea hit sudden and hard. Pauline saw it coming first; she grabbed the emesis bowl, thrusting it into House's hands just in time. House gasped, retching into the bowl, as a cold sweat broke out and he began to shiver uncontrollably. Cuddy rubbed his back, trying to relax him through the violence of the episode.

Croft appeared at House's bedside. "Dr. House?" House turned, glaring . "I don't have to tell you that this will get worse…"

"Yeah. Been there, done that. So, yeah. I know."

"You have to let me know if you have any sort of visual or auditory, even touch sensation that you don't think is real. Or is strange or unexpected. With your uncertain mental status complicating the drug issues – or maybe caused by them, your delusions and hallucinations could be magnified. So. Anything."

"Like Cuddy being here?"

"She is here. And real. She's going to stay with you awhile. But if you experience anything you question as real let me know. Or Pauline. You'll probably feel anxious. And restless. If you want to walk it off a bit, feel free to stroll the halls if you feel up to it. But take Dr. Cuddy with you."

The hours passed and his symptoms worsened more retching, chills, muscle spasms that made his normal pain level seem like good times. There were times he was barely aware of anyone's presence. Pauline and Cuddy pushed fluids, threatening to hook him to a saline IV if he didn't drink and have something light to eat.

"Can we get some extra blankets?" House heard Cuddy say at some point when his shivering became so bad, she thought he might be having a seizure. Her voice seemed to come from somewhere distant, wrapped in gauze. She wrapped the extra blankets around his shoulders. Cuddy's knuckles brushed his neck as she tucked the blanket around and he flinched in agony at the simple touch of her hand.

"Thank you," he gasped, trying to find his breath—and his voice. "I need something…," he pleaded.  
"I can't…I can't…" In a sudden burst of energy that came from nowhere, House swept the blankets aside, and nearly knocking over Cuddy, he got out of bed. "I need to wa…"Taking two unstable steps towards the window, House collapsed to the floor, his leg giving out from under him as his blood pressure plummeted.

Pauline and Cuddy both saw it coming, but were unable to reach him before he fell. Max was there an instant later, ready to help. House held up a hand, not ready to move from his new place on the cool linoleum floor. Resting his back against the wall, he drew his legs up , his head against his knees. Another wave of nausea, a new emesis bowl, and finally House began to come back to himself. "I think I'll rest here awhile," he declared, his breathing rapid and shallow.

"Well this is fun, isn't it? Sitting on the floor, puking your brains out. Sure must be impressing Cuddy big time! Why'd you ask her to come anyway? Can't do this on your own?" Amber's voice, no longer the distant and seductive purr it had become, but a playground sneer, relentless and taunting. "I give you two hours, tops, before you're screaming for buprenorphine, and you don't even think it works. That's how pathetic you are. Why don't you just put an end to it now, hmmm? All you have to do is get rid of them, right? You're creative, you'll find something. And that will be that. You'll…"

"Shut up. Just shut up!" House shouted, his hands over his ears. "Just shut the fuck up and leave me alone!" House's eyes were panicky, wide as saucers as he yelled at no one and everyone.

"Well if you're going to be that way about it…" Amber said in a huff. And she was gone.

"House?" Cuddy crouched in front of him, taking her hands in his; he was trembling. "Hey! Come back!" He blinked, noticing her finally. "Who were you talking to?"

"Does it matter?" he grumbled, trying to struggle back to his feet. "Someone who is clearly not here. Enjoying the freak show?" he sighed, hating every moment of her attention; feeling exposed and raw.

"No," she said seriously, stopping him. Moving her hands to his face, she forced him to look at her. "I'm not. I can't imagine what you're going through; how much this must scare the hell out you…I can't even begin…how much you must hate…" House looked away, refusing to return her gaze.

"Don't." House pleaded. He sucked in a breath as a sudden muscle spasm gripped his right ankle before moving up his leg, sending a thousand knives up his calf and into his ravaged thigh. House bit his lower lip to keep from screaming, which would have had consequences untold and infinitely more frightening than the simple, exquisite agony of this pain.

"Tell me where!" Cuddy shouted, seeing House's expression clenched, again withdrawing into himself. He could barely hear or see her, lost in the torture of the moment, much less understand what she was saying.

To House, at that moment, there was nothing else but the pain; it was his world. It was his prison, and there was no escape, but into his own mind. Frantic searching for a mythical "safe" place proved to be a fruitless endeavor, and he prayed to anyone who could hear his silent plea to put him out of his misery. To simply, finally let him die. He wanted it over.

"House!" A shout heard in the distance through layers of trembling and sweat, fear and pain—always more and more pain. Was she shaking him, or was it simply another wave of the chills? He didn't know, didn't care.

Cuddy watched House furiously working his thigh muscles, his panicked motions effective only in increasing the anxiety. She altered her position on the floor, placing his leg in her lap. Gentle, firm pressure, finding the knots, she massaged ankle to knee, trying to knead all his trouble away, knowing it was ridiculous notion. But it seemed to calm him as his motions became less frenzied, his breathing more regular.

"Do you think you can stand now?" asked Max. House nodded slightly as they worked in tandem to help House up and get him back into bed.

"He's burning up, hand me the thermometer, Max, it's…" Pauline straightened the light bedcovers as Max handed it to her. "101.2. Let's get him something for it."

Cuddy resumed her position sitting on the edge of the bed, feeling helpless to do much of anything for him. He was in agony again, sick; he was murmuring softly to a voice that no one else could hear. "House?" Her voice was soft, non-threatening. "Hey! Over here," she encouraged, as if speaking to a lost child. She laid a hand on his cheek, ignoring the sticky wetness of his sweat and tears, turning his face towards her. He closed his eyes trying to focus only on the softness and warmth of her touch. A barely distinct beacon lost within the fog of his consciousness. She moved her hand to rest her thumb gently on his closed eyelid, sweeping it gently, applying light but firm pressure. House sagged back, some of the tension slowly retreating from his face and shoulders.

Moving yet closer, Cuddy repeated the action with her other hand, the smooth, gentle motion of her thumbs seeming to calm him. The murmuring stopped; House appeared to have fallen into light, fitful sleep.

Quietly, carefully rising from House's bedside, Cuddy collapsed into the nearby easy chair, wondering if she would make it through the rest of the day, knowing that she must.


	8. And Why the Sea is Boiling Hot

There seemed to be blood. Everywhere. Had he tried to get out of bed to use the bathroom and yanked out the saline IV? Or fallen asleep and somehow twisted the tubing and dislodging the cannula?

Cuddy was asleep in the easy chair, taking a much-needed break as House seemed finally stable after spiking a fever. Finding him slightly dehydrated, they'd hooked him up to a saline drip and he seemed to be asleep at last.

Pauline had seen the blood from the doorway, returning after getting some supplies and grabbing a dinner tray for herself and Cuddy. Throwing the trays on the table, she ran to her patient. Blood was oozing freely from the vein where the IV had been placed and from three other deep slices on his arm. She hit the call button. "Need help in here, please. Dr. House." She was shouting his name, trying to arouse him, wondering if he'd lost enough blood to be in shock.

The noise woke Cuddy. "Get me that…" Pauline started, seeing Cuddy's alarm. Cuddy threw her a box of gauze bandages from a nearby shelf. "Bleeding's almost stopped. What the hell happened?"

House still had not wakened, even with all the fuss going on around him. Cuddy checked his vitals as Max appeared in the doorway with Dr. Croft. "He's not in sho…," Cuddy began as House opened his eyes slowly.

Pauline finished taping his left arm and started removing the bloody top sheet. "Leave it Pauline, for the moment, won't you? Let's let Dr. House wake up a bit. Why don't you and Dr. Cuddy go to the staff cafeteria and grab a bite," he suggested gesturing to the now forgotten lunch trays.

Cuddy glanced at Croft quickly. "I'd like to…"

"You can talk in a bit. Give me about 15 minutes, won't you?" Cuddy nodded toward him, knowing that she was being dismissed.

"Staff lounge is this way. I'm sorry I wasn't…"

"He was asleep. We both thought. I don't know…maybe he was. Maybe he…" Cuddy stopped, a lump in her throat. They both knew what probably happened in that brief moment when no one was looking. And there was very little chance that any of it was accidental. Except the not dying part.

"Has he ever…is there any reason to believe…?"

"It's hard to say. Has he simply not cared whether he was going to live or die? There have been those times over the years… Is there a difference? Maybe he was cutting himself…he's done that. To help with the pain. Once before when he was trying…when he was forced…to give up the pain meds. Look, Pauline. You go get something to eat. I'm not really hungry and I'd rather wait here to talk to Croft."

Croft waited for House to offer anything. An explanation, a word. Anything. Instead, House turned his head away, refusing to engage him at all. He knew it wouldn't really do any good. Yet… When he turned away from Croft there was Amber, simply smiling a knowing smile. "Just shut the fuck up," House yelled at her smile, willing it away. Her away, to no avail.

"Who are you talking to? Are you experiencing…?"

"You. It was a pre-emptive 'shut the fuck up.'" House's eyes were clamped shut against Amber's insipid smile. He would give a lot for Kutner to reappear in her place. Better yet, no one at all. He wanted to be left alone.

"Ahhh. So, what happened?" House laughed. It was hollow and mirthless.

"What do you think happened?" House was shivering again, a cold sweat covered his face and back; he wondered if he was going to pass out again, glancing quickly at the monitor to check his blood pressure. Low, but within normal range. No, it wasn't the blood loss, it was a new wave of withdrawal symptoms. Great.

"No. I don't know, so I'm not making assumption. I know what I think happened, but… So, why don't you tell me?"

"Go away. I know I have to be here, but nothing says I have to listen to your… Where's Cuddy?"

"How could you do that to her?" A different tack.

"Leave me the hell alone. Really."

"He's not going away. He'll probably sit there all day waiting for you to come clean, so you might as well tell him what he wants to hear," Amber cooed soothingly, now perched near his head. House opened his eyes, looking up at her, listening.

"Fine. I must've pulled out the IV line. That idiot nurse did a fine job of inserting it, especially in someone who's detoxing. I'm shaking like a fucking leaf in the wind; it was worse before; drowsy, not really paying attention. It fits."

"It might, but that's not what happened. How did such a small needle manage to randomly make such deep slices. I admit they're not very neat, I suppose anything is possible, but…"

"Look. What do you want me to say?" House turned in the bed, glaring at Croft, who was now sitting in a bedside chair. "That I pulled it out? That I tried…gosh darn it…really tried to reach my wrist, but my drug addled and detoxing brain prevented me from finding just the right vein? Is that better. Is that what you want to hear?"

"That's not what happened either." House hated this more than the detox. The wind knocked from his sails, House sunk back into the bed, his eyes closed against another wave of nausea. Croft saw it and handed him the emesis bowl.

House felt trapped; surrounded by Croft's quiet, unreadable calm and Amber's alternating taunts and soothing advice. And then there was Cuddy. Why in the hell had he even suggested that she come? To what? See him like this? Pity him? Mother him? Fuck that. "The pain had gotten much worse," he began almost to himself, so quiet was his voice, gravelly and parched. "I have found that cutt… that small incisions…," he corrected himself, keeping it clinical. "Small incisions, carefully placed can help…"

"You were cutting yourself." Croft made it sound pathetic, insane.

"No, I…" House lacked the energy to fight him on this. "Whatever," he said finally, giving up.

"Self mutilation isn't the answer. You know that, Dr. House."

"The endoprhins…"

"But they can't last. It's a fleeting treatment at best, and then what?"

"Look. Fine, whatever. So now you know. Can you just leave me alone now? Tell Cuddy she can go back to Princeton, too. Lock me up in the cooler, take away my milk and cookies. Just leave me the fuck alone."

Croft disappeared without another word as Cuddy returned followed by Max and Pauline. "Oh goody," House offered, sarcasm dripping like soured milk. "Gang's all here. Party time." Cuddy shot a glance at Max, gesturing for him to hold off a moment.

"House, they need to restart the IV in your other arm. Especially with the blood loss…" He studied Max warily, gauging why Cuddy felt the need to state the obvious to him.

"No. No restraints. You can't…"

"House, it's for your own protection, what if…"

"I won't." House mustered his most resolute voice, knowing it was but a feeble attempt.

"Not even you know if that's true. What if the pain gets bad enough; what if some voice in your head tells you…" She immediately saw the pain in his eyes, the hurt. "I'm sorry…I…I'm not saying…," but she could not seem to retrieve the words already spoken. The elephant in the room was now in plain sight.

"They can't force me to be in restraints. It was stupid, what I did. I won't try it again," he said, knowing it was something he couldn't really promise for sure.

"I'll see what I can do." House visibly relaxed, the tension abating at least a little. He didn't care what else they did to him; he would not allow them to shackle him to the bed. Never.


	9. And Whether Pigs Have Wings

A/N—Alas, this will be my last chapter. I've just taken on a very involved and time consuming writing project, which will take all my free time to complete on schedule. It's very exciting and I hope to let you in on more of it as it progresses. So this is it for now. Keep reading my House feature on Blogcritics, which will be updated throughout the summer and into season six. Thanks for reading!

Of Cabbages and Kings

Chapter the Last

Forty-eight hours had passed. Pauline removed the IV from House's lower leg, untying the loosely tied restraint from his ankle. His vitals were pretty good, and the nausea had subsided to a point where House wasn't reaching for the emesis bowl every 10 minutes. He still hadn't really slept, just drifted in and out of fitful sleep in between the bouts of the nausea, extreme restlessness, chills and severe muscle spasms. But all of these seemed to be abating.

House glanced over at the chair where Cuddy slept soundly. Copy of the _New England Journal_ open on her lap. The restlessness was returning, despite his extreme exhaustion. "Hey!" Pauline looked up as she put away her supplies. "I really, really need a shower. Almost as much as I need to be out of this damn bed."

"I'll get Max." Just great. That's not what he meant.

"I don't need… I just want to go into the bathroom and take a goddam shower. I don't need the whole…" It almost didn't matter anymore. He just needed to be out of that bed. He needed to move; he wanted to be alone. At least in the shower there was that illusion at least. On the other hand, no doubt it would be only an illusion.

House glanced around. Pauline was gone; Cuddy was asleep. A voice emerged from behind his left shoulder. "Hey, we're alone. Sort of… Time to make our escape," her voice was sing-song, melodic, excited. "Chop-chop. Time's a-wastin'," Amber sang. When House didn't move from his perch on the bed, Amber appeared in front of him, examining him head to foot. "Right. You can't move, can you? No meds? No pain relief. You are pretty useless aren't you?" She glanced at Cuddy. "And what about her? What the hell were you thinking, bringing her here? You really are as pathetic as your father says you are. I don't even know why I bother. It's not like you listen to me, anyway." She sighed, moving off in a dramatic huff.

"Dr. House? You in there?" House hadn't noticed Max, standing in the exact spot Amber had just vacated. "Need some help standing?" House shook him off as he tested his balance gingerly, still semi-seated.

"Give me a minute," House gasped, warily glancing around Max, steadying himself. The aide backed off a bit as House stood shakily, woozily. The nausea threatened to stage another encore and House forced the bile back down his throat, refusing to succumb to it. A small victory as House stood, dizzy as hell, but unaided.

The pain was exquisite and everywhere. His ribs ached almost as bad as his leg; residual muscle spasms fought his every move. "Do you want a walker, Dr. House?" House looked up, glaring at Max for the mere suggestion.

"My cane," insisted House with as much arrogance and pride as he could muster. He would NOT use a walker.

Cuddy woke, yawning; confused at the flutter of activity around House. "You OK?" House nodded tightly. He felt anything but. The insipid smiles on Max and Pauline's faces made him nearly as queasy as the opioid withdrawal.

Max disappeared with House into the bathroom as Paula adjusted the bed linens. "He wanted a shower," she offered.

"Is he doing any better?"

"It's a process, as you know," explained the nurse apologetically, realizing she was explaining to a dean of medicine, not a typical family member. "After he get showered, Dr. Croft wants to see him. He seems to be through the worst of the detox. He's strong; no meds. I'm impressed."

"He's done it before. Detox. That's the easy part." Pauline nodded, acknowledging the truth of Cuddy's words.

House emerged some time later, looking slightly less haggard. He looked like he had dropped 15 pounds in the two days since he'd gotten to Mayfield and dark smudges beneath his eyes seemed to make the irises appear even more blue. He walked with difficulty, as if each step was an ordeal: he looked like he might keel over any moment.

Cuddy stood, offering the easy chair. It would be a nice change from the bed, she reckoned. She looked at Pauline. "Do you think it would be OK if you both…" Pauline glanced at Max, who shrugged his shoulders.

"Can you make sure he gets over to Dr. Croft's office in about 10 minutes?"

"Thank you. Both." Cuddy nodded, grateful for the time alone with House. She needed to know. A lot, but for now, she needed to know about the hallucinations.

She sat on the chair's footrest, nudging House's feet out of the way. "Hey," she said softly. House nodded in response. "Are you still…" Again House nodded, closing his eyes.

"Oh yeah. She's still there. As much of a bitch as ever."

"House, I'm...I don't know what to…" Cuddy crouched in front of him, taking his hand in hers, searching his face for answers. He always had the answers…

House shivered as a new wave of chills hit unexpectedly. She grabbed the blanket from his bed, wrapping it around his shoulders. He smiled wanly. "I'm sorry," he said suddenly.

"That covers a lot of territory," Cuddy offered, knowing where this was going and trying to keep things light.

"For falling apart in your office; for humiliating you… Hell…" He opened his eyes looking anywhere but into her eyes. "For getting you involved with this at all. I…"

"You're sick. You'll get better. This isn't your fault."

"I'll never practice medicine again," he said flatly. Matter-of-factly. "All the kings horses and all the king's men couldn't put Humpty in his place again."

"Nursery rhymes?"

"Lewis Carroll. Through the Looking Glass. The metaphor sure fits."

"You will come back to work again."

"Right. I don't need platitudes. Especially not from you. I'll get enough here to last a lifetime. You should go back to Princeton."

"I need to. Soon. I need to get back to Rachel. House. What you thought you experienced that night…"

"I said I was sorr…"

"No. Not what I'm looking for… I… what you wanted. What you thought you wanted. That you needed me. Wanted me. It's OK."

"It's not like I haven't thought about it. A lot. That desk you restored for me? How on earth…"

"Your mother was happy to get rid of it."

"Yeah, right. What you did was… I never got to thank you for it. When you're out of here and back at work…"

"You and I both know. Both can do the math. I'm still hallucinating. I've been off vicodin for more than two days, and the hallucinations haven't gotten better. I don't even know if you're really here. Maybe you're conferring with Croft and any minute you'll come through the door and ask me who I'm talking to. I can't tell. Amber's dead. Kutner's dead. I know they're not real. But you? Cuddy, it was so real. So fucking…

"At best they'll have me on anti-psych meds long-term; I won't be able to practice medicine. My pain will have to be treated, probably intrathecal morphine. Between that and the anti-psychotics, no way I'll be able to renew my license. You and I both know that. Don't give false hope to the clinically insane. And that's best case. Worst…this will become my permanent home, and Max will have to take Wilson's place as my best friend."

"House, you don't know that."

"Yeah? And what do you think is causing my psychosis?" Cuddy looked away, hiding the gathering tears.

"Hey, I need to get you to Croft. And then I need to hit the road." House continued to stare, waiting for her best guess, which she clearly was unwilling to share. She knew he was right. The prognosis sucked. At least as far as ever practicing medicine again was concerned.

Cuddy stood and handed House his cane. "C'mon."

And so I need to end it there. Sorry for the abrupt conclusion, but we know House will still be in Mayfield come September, so I didn't want to explore too much beyond the first few days with this concluding chapter.

I hope you enjoyed the ride!


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